


Cakes galore

by Ibenholt



Category: Cyborg 009
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:42:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22964848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibenholt/pseuds/Ibenholt
Summary: Chang has some thoughts about how his family celebrate his birthday.
Kudos: 4





	Cakes galore

“You can’t bake your own birthday cake.”

GB says, hands on his hips, scrunching up his face for effect. Chang looks unamused at him.

“And why not?”

“Because none of us are sick, dying or poor. And there are nine of us, counting the professor.”

And even with 18 hands, it still wasn’t enough to make something proper.

Chang would never understand why, but after all these years, his family struggled with cakes. Jet, bless him, tried repeatedly, but they always sank in the middle. Geronimo and Pyunma, probably damaged by years of having to scrounge and save everything, were far too modest with the ingredients, resulting in carrot bread rather than cake. Albert and Francoise got far too experimental and stuffed their cakes with whatever seemed proper, resulting in barely cooked-through things that someone always mercifully threw out in the dead of night. Joe hadn’t attempted anything since the Great Oven Disaster of ’94, which everyone had made a gentlemen’s agreement not to bring up again. The Professor could fry eggs and sometimes make borscht, but beyond that, food was something he didn’t make himself. Ivan had seen Chang make cakes many times, but even telekinesis wasn’t always that easy with flour and sugar involved. He was a racer at decorating, however, and Chang never failed to compliment him on that.

GB, who has always been a great help in the kitchen was helpless without Chang’s directions, and made a cake that looked more like experimental art and tasted like play-doh the last time he tried, leans down and kisses him,

“Leave it to us, eh? Maybe we will get it right this year!”

Had he been allowed, Chang would have made himself something straight out of a French patisserie. Something fancy, light and absolutely more suited for a spring day rather than February, the month of illness, dark skies and sludge.

But then, what would be the point?

After all… whatever they made this time, be it a red, three-tiered monstrosity, or a focaccia disguised as a chocolate cake, for however bad they would taste and look, the effort spoke louder than words, and for anyone who had such poor baking-skills to keep trying after all these years for his sake, had to love him. 


End file.
